


well, that's just my see through heart

by santiagone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, and jemma simmons is oblivious, in which fitz is a lovesick dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:56:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9709259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: Jemma Simmons has a very nice smile, and in a world where one tiny distraction might mean stepping into a deadly puddle of acid, he thinks she might just be the death of him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> to [maggie](http://fitzsimmmonsy.tumblr.com/): surprise! i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. jokes aside, you are a dear person, and a delightful valentine. i really do hope you enjoy this little gift - i originally wrote a piece travelling down the typical 'zombies' route, but in the end, i drew some inspiration from things such as the 100, star wars, and travellers, to create a little world that turned out to be more romance than danger. nonetheless, i hope you enjoy, and happy valentine's <3  
> title and lyrics are from sebell; see through heart.

_that's just my see through heart_  
_‘cause I can't hide the way I'm feelingt_  
_and that's just the funny part_  
_i don't even know i'm bleeding_

 

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The day the world goes dark, Jemma is standing right next to him, as she _should_ be. Their rightful places have always been right next to each other, he knows. Sometimes Jemma flits through cycles, because she is brilliant and bright and much too fantastic to be contained to one person at a time, but she always comes back, in the end. It's her and him, watching the end of the world.

They’re perched on the windowsill of the bunker, watching as the skies erupt and the seas rage and a thousand different storms come to fruition all at once. Jemma's crying, and pretending like she's not, like she always does.

“I told them,” she says quietly. “I told them about the radiation, I _said_ —”

“I know,” he interrupts, hand finding hers before he can think twice. “Jemma, I know. It's not your fault.”

“I could have done something,” she mumbles. “Could have done more.”

“You did all you could,” Fitz says firmly, “and more than that. This is on them, it was inevitable.” She still looks doubtful, so he pulls her into a hug, arms slinking around her back, her head tucking into his neck. She's so full of strength that sometimes he forgets he's taller than her. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says again, and she pulls back slightly to look up at him.

“You think so?”

“I think a lot of things,” he says, trying for a weak grin. “I _know_ this.”

She smiles at him then. Shakily, but it's still _there_ , and as she presses back into him, he can't help but think that Jemma Simmons has a very nice smile. Maybe, he thinks with a wry glance out the window, the kind of smile planets would die for.

Outside, the sky flashes from violent orange to deep purple to blood red. The ground swallows buildings and spits out acid, and the sea water creeps in and recedes out at an alarming rate. The world as he knows it is ending, but he glances at her. And perhaps it's because people tend to search for light in all the dark places, but as he presses his mouth into Jemma's hair, he thinks that things can't possibly be so bad with her right by his side.

 

.

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.

 

It is two weeks since the world destructed right outside of their doorstep, and Jemma is getting restless. He finds her curled up at the window bay more often than not, pressing her fingers to the glass, writing in her notebook that is already filled up with ideas and scribbles and, occasionally, the little doodle or design from him.

“Hey,” he says, pressing into the space right next to her one night and crossing his legs. “Daisy and Mack want you to come join us for cards.” It's what they've taken to doing now, when they’re not upholding their end of duties. They curl up in Mack’s quarters (the biggest one, because he shares it with Elena) and they play cards to distract themselves from the turmoil brewing outside their window, to keep from getting under the feet of the officials who scramble so hard everyday to keep the bunkers secure.

“Maybe later,” says Jemma absently, nibbling at her lip.

Gently, he reaches forward and eases the pen and paper from her grasp. “Jemma, you've been here for three hours. You need a break.”

“I feel stupid, being cooped up here,” she says, frustration bleeding through her words. “Like there's nothing I can do.”

“The officials are handling it,” he tells her. She sighs impatiently.

“Well, I want to help! It isn't fair, being in here like this. There's a whole world out there, there's all sorts of dangers, and I'm—”

“Not sick of me already, are you?” he teases, knowing better than to let the train gather full steam. He's surprised by the hurt in her eyes.

“ _No_ , Fitz. I love having you here.” It's unexpected, the warmth that spreads through his body at her words. He wants to… well, he's not _sure_ what he wants to do. Hug her for it, smile at her for it. He wants her to have everything she's ever wanted in life. (And maybe, if he's lucky, he’ll be included on that list.)

“Good,” he says, and she reaches over to settle a hand on his knee. His finds himself staring at her touch, the way it makes him tingle.

“I want to do more,” Jemma continues, and he wants to do something brave, like hold her hand. He can be brave for Jemma, he decides, and settles his hand over top of hers.

“You will. And I’ll be right there with you.”

“Together,” she continues for him, and _oh_. There it is again. That smile of hers, the one that makes his fingers shake. He can't explain it. He's not sure he even wants to. Instead, he slides the notebook and pen away, as far enough as he can get without dislodging their intertwined fingers.

“Save the world another day. Come play cards with us.”

To his complete surprise, she nods at him, just once, that small smile never diminishing or fading in the slightest.

“Okay,” she says, allowing him to pull her out of her drab quarters, “but only if you promise not to go easy on me.”

“Jemma Simmons,” Fitz says, “I _never_ go easy on you.”

 

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.

 

It is three months since the world destructed, and ash still rains outside, mountains still cave every other day, and the animals have started growing increasingly agitated, blooming forth terrifying mutations. There are toxics, natural and artificial disasters waiting to happen, and the promise of death waiting just outside.

And still, none of this is enough to persuade Jemma in her convictions of leaving the safety of the bunker.

 _I’m a big girl, Fitz. I can take care of myself, Fitz. I need to do this, Fitz._ He's exhausted every one of her perfunctory responses (usually accompanied by an eye roll of some sort), and yet he still can't find it in him to stop pressing her. The thought of her venturing out into the dangerous world like that is enough to make him feel violently sick. The thought of her possibly being injured is even worse, and he won't even _let_ himself think past injury.

But Jemma Simmons has made up her mind, and a convinced Jemma is an unswayed Jemma, so when she tells him about the team she's signed up to over rations one morning, his heart drops right into his stomach, but he is not the slightest bit surprised.

“What?” he manages, and her eyes light up.

“An exploration expedition, Fitz! A team of us will finally venture outside on Tuesday, we’ll be testing the air for levels of radiation and bringing back anoles of flora to see what the radioactivity has done to them, to see if Earth’s natural resources are still sustainable, or if we’ll have to work with the artificial farms forever.” Fitz doesn't say anything, and Jemma falters slightly. “We’ll be in Hazmat suits, Fitz, it’ll be perfectly safe.”

“But it won't,” he says, a sudden swell of alarm pushing up through his throat. He feels faint. He needs to lie down. “It's dangerous. You can't go.”

Jemma’s mouth parts slightly. “I have to.”

“Just pull out,” he pleads, “it's too much of a risk, Jemma, even for you, and you're brilliant, you _know_ you're brilliant.”

“That's not an option,” says Jemma firmly. “I have to go. I have to help.”

Fitz pushes his tray across the table and stands, ignoring the curious gaze of others as Jemma scrambles after him out of the canteen.

“Fitz—”

“Let me come with you,” he says desperately, whirling on her in the hallway. “I’ll feel better if I am, if I'm there—”

“You don't have the qualifications.” Jemma shakes her head, her hand comes to rest on his arm. “You're just surprised, that's why you're being irrational.”

“I'm _not_ ,” Fitz says fiercely, and then takes a deep breath at the look on her face. “I'm just… I’m worried. It's not safe out there.”

“I know,” she says gently, and her fingers come to his chin, to tilt his face so he can look her directly in the eye. His anger melts away then, like magic. “I'm worried too. But this is my chance to _make_ it safe. For me, and for you, and for the next generation. This isn't how we die out, Fitz. I won't allow it.”

He can't help but grin at that, pathetic as it is. “You're so bossy.”

“You love it,” she says, reaching up to knock her forehead into his. He wonders why his heart suddenly expands three sizes at the intimacy of having her eyes so close to his. She smells very nice, he realises. Like standard grade chlorine soap, and pale vanilla, and a little bit of ash mixed in.

“If you're going to go,” he says finally, voice wavering, “just make sure you come back. Okay?” He presses his fingers into her wrist, tight, meaningful. “You better come back.”

Jemma smiles at him, slow and small and full of promise. “I’ll come back.”

 

.

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.

 

Tuesday rolls around far too quick, and soon he's watching Jemma climb into a hazmat suit and pretending like he's not chewing his fingernails down to the skin.

“Jemma,” he says on impulse, watching as she sweeps her hair aside and picks up the helmet. But he doesn't know what to say, after that. Her name feels heavy on his tongue, stamped on his heart and carved into his bones. He can't be rid of her. If she dies, a little part of him will too.

She smiles at him, like her name is all he ever needed to say. She tucks her helmet under her arm, takes a few determined steps forward, and leans up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

“I’ll be okay,” she says, and turns to hug Hunter. Fitz is torn between savouring that tiny moment and wondering why Daisy is grinning so radiantly at them both.

“Okay, only official personnel past this point,” May says, ducking through the door to the air compressed chamber. Jemma slides her helmet on, clicks it into place, and follows Bobbi, Elena, and Mack out the door.

Coulson seals the door with a final decisive twist of the wheel, and Fitz gnaws at the inside of his cheek as May opens the outside door and fog fills the compression room. When the fog finally clears, the group is gone, but there is a little message left from the steam on the window in Jemma's unmistakable writing: _I promise_.

Fitz traces the message on his side of the window until it fades away, and tells himself that everything is fine. Nothing has exploded, no alarm has gone off, and Jemma's group is heading off into the distance at a steady pace. Still, he doesn't move an inch until their silhouettes have entirely disappeared.

 

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“That was cute,” says Daisy. They’re curled up in Mack’s bunk, but it's oddly cold without everyone else. Fitz wishes they had beer. Instead, he frowns at Daisy.

“I'm sorry?”

Daisy blinks at him, like he's being ridiculous. “The kiss on the cheek? The note drawn on the window? The _look_ you get every time she smiles. The smile _she_ gets every time you look at her. Come _on_ , Fitz."

Fitz looks down and fiddles with the cards in his hands. “I'm worried about her,” he says, instead of giving her a concrete answer.

“She’ll be okay,” says Daisy, like she's never thought otherwise. “She's brave, and she's kind, and she's clever. It's why I like her so much. It's why we all do.”

“I like her for more than that,” he says, feeling oddly defensive. Prickly, in a way he shouldn't be. He chews his cheek at the soft look Daisy gives him.

“I know you do.”

“Stop reading into it,” he mumbles, setting out a card onto the table. She just smiles at him, in a way that curiously reminds him of May.

“I don't need to. It's written all over your face.”

“Well, I wish I could see it,” he says, a little bitterly. “She's my best friend, but it's—it’s more than that, it's—it’s complicated.”

“I know,” says Daisy, peering at him from over her hand of cards.

Fitz bites at his lip; tries desperately not to think of Jemma out in the dangerous world, but it's hard, not to think of her. “Do you think she can see it?” he settles on eventually.

“I think,” says Daisy with a sly grin, “that you two are just as oblivious as each other.”

 

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The intercom system buzzes sometime in the afternoon, as the hazy crimson of the sun sinks back into the polluted abyss, and suddenly everything blurs. He drops his cards, shares a look with Daisy, and instantly, wordlessly, they are both on their feet and hurtling through corridors to the compression chamber.

Something inside Fitz crumbles when he sees all five of them perfectly intact, shrugging off their hazmat suits and carefully setting aside the samples they’ve collected. On the contrary, Jemma seems sunny, brightened after her foray into dangerous territory. Still, he can't help himself from pulling her into a tight hug the moment she steps back into his reach, his fingers coming to settle on her jaw.

“You’re okay?” he checks, and she smiles at him, reaching up to cover his fingers with her own.

“I promised you I would be, didn't I?”

“He's been worrying out of his mind,” Daisy informs lightly, as Fitz finally relinquishes Jemma. His fingers linger for a little longer than they should, and his ears burn at the thought of it.

“I _haven't_.”

“He so  _has_. He snapped at three unsuspecting people, dropped his rations tray twice, and shouted at Mace.”

“Fitz,” Jemma admonishes, but she looks a little pleased, and that sort of makes it all worth it. “Mace has the power to give you all sorts of unthinkable chores.”

“He already has,” Fitz says grimly. “I’m counting up the rations this week.”

“Oh, Fitz.” Jemma sighs, and then smiles at him, and his heart does that alarming thumping thing again. “Well, I’ll help you. But for now…”

“Your mission?” Fitz prompts, and her eyes light up instantly.

“Oh, it was _amazing_ , Fitz. We’re still waiting for results on the radiation levels to come back, but it seems that a majority of the flora and fauna survived, with a few adjustments to their cellular structure, of course, but it's just _fascinating_ how things can adapt, don't you think…” Jemma rambles on, and he listens to her with a half smile. His hand twitches, and with a surprising realisation, he realised that he'd gotten the strangest urge to hold her hand. _Hold her hand._ Jemma Simmons’ hand. Absurd. Impossible.

 _You two are just as oblivious as each other_. His heart feels a little too tight, just then, so he does what he always does. He presses those difficult, unanswerable questions into a pretty little box in the corner. Glaze it over, slap a bow on it. The gift he’ll never give. But things are better this way, he remembers. This way he is less susceptible to the dangers of Jemma Simmons’ smile.

 

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Jemma is cheerful for the next few days, in a way that he hasn't seen for a while, in a way that suits her pretty face very nicely. He likes seeing her smile in the mornings, he likes seeing the little unnecessary flourishes in her reports, he likes seeing all the little things about her that reflect happiness.

Fitz likes a deal many of things about Jemma. What he _doesn't_ like is the way she informs him that her group will be going out on daily excursions from now on.

“Please don't sulk, Fitz,” she says carefully. “This means a lot to me.”

He wants to sulk at the idea of her charging out headlong into danger every other day, and he wants to sulk at the fact that she’ll be doing it without him there. But she wants this, so he wants this too.

“I wish I could come with you,” he says quietly instead, blinking at her in the dim lights of the solar lamps, sorting through this week’s worth of rations.

“I know you do,” Jemma acknowledges patiently, with a small tilt of her lips. “But I can take care of myself.”

“Oh—I know you can,” Fitz says hurriedly. “I’d just… feel better if I knew you were alright. If I could watch your back.” She nods at him, a little indulgently, and he sighs. “I'm sorry, I'm worrying too much—”

“You are, a little,” Jemma allows, “but I like it, Fitz. It's adorable. Don't ever change.”

She says it flippantly, like it's the easiest thing she's ever said as she turns away, but Fitz’s heart has picked up astronomically, and he has to swallow hard to stop himself from grinning stupidly. Instead, he ducks his head and drops the rations to peer at the collection of rations, examining them just so Jemma won't see his flush.

 

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The days curl on, one after the other, and Fitz spends countless hours agonising over her safety and agonising over her smile, trying to pick apart every little action he's ever had with her.

He knows, without a surety of a doubt, that Jemma Simmons is not just his best friend anymore. He's done his research (it's a shame Bobbi caught onto his subtle attempts to ask about her relationship), he's put in the work, and he's positive that a best friend isn't supposed to make him flush to your toes, isn't supposed to make him irrationally irritable anytime someone attractive so much as smiles at her, isn't supposed to make him want _more_ . If anyone can break stereotypes, it's Jemma Simmons, but he _knows_ this is different. He knows all this. He's an intellectual, after all.

But the funny thing is, he has never been _confrontational_. If he is too bold in assuming, if he makes the wrong move, he loses her. The world will flip upside down, and he’ll lose her, and he's rather bite his cheek every time she laughs rather than never be the cause of that laughter again.

The only problem? Well, the universe has different ideas, and it is on a Thursday morning when Fitz notices the sudden surge in activity down the hallway, and something in his gut suddenly feels sharply, worryingly _wrong_.

“Hey,” he says, catching someone by the shoulder. “Hey, what's going on?”

“Not sure. Accident on an expo group, urgent medical attention needed, that's all I know,” says the woman briskly, snapping on gloves and disappearing down the hall.

Fitz’s blood runs cold. _Urgent medical attention needed_. Jemma’s group was supposed to be back in an hour. He'd told her to be careful, and what if she's—

“Fitz.” Daisy is by his side, suddenly, gripping his arm so tight he can feel her nails. Her face is pale. Her voice cracks. “Fitz, it's not good.”

 

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She looks so small. Fitz has never seen Jemma so small before, or so pale. She’s curled up, hand drifting to the side like it's waiting for a gap to fill. He takes it, holds on for dear life, wonders if she can feel that he's there. He hopes she can. He doesn't want her to be afraid, even if his heart hasn't stopped thumping out of his chest since the moment May gravely said, ‘ _Jemma was hit, she's in medical_.’

No one will tell him what happened, and it's driving him out of his mind, but the important thing is that she's alive. She’s breathing. But the most awful thing is, in those few moments where he'd considered a world without her, he realised he didn't want one. A world without her. This apocalypse, it should have destroyed him. He should have been torn up, and he was, still is, to an extent. But Jemma has made it bearable. Jemma has made it kind, and he doesn't think h can do this without her. Not for a second.

He's in love with her. He knows that now. He just didn't have the courage to know it before, but he's not letting her slip through his fingers this time. This has to count. This has to _mean_ something.

Fitz presses his fingers in between Jemma’s slim ones, and prays for a miracle.

Melinda May walks in.

“She's the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” she says, setting in beside the bed. “And the strongest, too. She’ll make it through.”

“I know she will.”

May smiles. “Good. You should get some rest, Fitz. I'll send someone for you at the slightest change."

He's reluctant, but he thinks that Jemma Simmons would prefer no other person than Melinda May to watch over her, so he slides his fingers free and stands. His bones creak; he's been here for hours. He’d stay for longer, but she’s in good hands.

 

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“How’s she holding up?” Bobbi asks, concern peeking through her calm composure. Fitz is glad _someone’s_ being calm, because right now he feels like he needs to throw something.

“Um, she’s still out, but I think,” he manages, “I think she’ll be okay.”

Bobbi smiles. “Good. That’s really good.”

He drums at the table, leg tapping up and down, trying to pretend like he’s not glancing back in the direction of the infirmary every five seconds. Like that will make a difference. Bobbi is a lot of things, but oblivious isn’t one of them.

“You’re angry,” she says, unexpectedly, and he blinks up at her in astonishment.

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I swear. I’m just worried.”

“Yes, and that's translating into anger,” Bobbi says evenly. “I know what you’re feeling. I’m feeling it too. I love Jemma almost as much as you do, and I understand what it’s like, to have the rug ripped out from under your feet, but you can’t be angry at her. I was there. I saw her. She did everything you asked, she was careful. She wanted to do more, I could tell, but she honoured her promise. She didn’t do anything rash, because she knows how it affects you. All of us, but… mainly you. It’s always _you_ , Fitz.” Bobbi’s hand comes to grip Fitz’s now, friendly, the big sister Fitz never had but always wanted. “So if you’re going to say something to her, say something true. Because I guarantee you, she feels it too.”

“Thanks,” he says, somewhat thickly, and she ruffles his hair.

“Go get her, little brother.”

 

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He's not sure how long he's been sleeping by her bed, but when he finally stirs, she's blinking down at him, a little bit of colour having returned to her cheeks, and his heart leaps instantly.

“Jemma! You're up,” he breathes, all relief, and she manages a pale smile.

“Have been for a while, actually.”

“You should have woken me,” he accuses.

Her fingers twitch, and he grabs her hand on instinct.

“Didn't want to,” she says sleepily. “You looked peaceful. Don't like it when you're worried.”

He huffs out a tiny laugh, squeezes her fingers tight. “Maybe you should try the whole staying out of danger thing, then. That's a sure fire way to prevent my worry.”

“I'm sorry,” she mumbles. She's pale, sweat beading on her hairline, brown hair splayed across the pillow in an undignified mess. Fitz thinks she looks beautiful.

“Don't be,” he says firmly. “Just be more careful next time, okay? I don't—I don't know what I'd do if you didn't make it. Something stupid, I expect.”

“Undoubtedly.” Jemma yawns, eyes tender. He's not sure what to say to that. “I told you not to go easy on me, remember?”

“I couldn't possibly forget,” he assures her, and they fall silent. He stares down at their joined hands, at the bruises mottling her knuckles, the drip spiralling up his arm. The way their fingers seem to slide perfectly into place together, like a missing puzzle piece. He releases a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

“Jemma, I—” But she's asleep, breathing steady. He reaches out; tucks her hair behind her ear. It's on the tip of his tongue, but he won't say it while she's asleep. He’ll wait, for as long as she needs. For as long as it takes.

 

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As it turns out, waiting is addictive. Some might even describe it as a trap, because he doesn't say a thing about his recent realisation as he helps her around the bunkers, doesn't say a thing when she smiles at being informed that she risked her life for a good cause, and he doesn't say a thing even when she is finally released from the infirmary, several weeks later.

And he's not sure why, exactly, except for the excuses he keeps making for himself. She’s still healing. She's too happy for him to ruin this moment. She's too busy. Endless loopholes, all with the same outcome. _He still hasn't told Jemma._

“She’s a good kisser,” says Daisy two days after Jemma’s release, flashing him a profound little smirk, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Fitz glances up at her, ration paused halfway to his mouth. “Who says I’m worried?”

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re always worried about _something_ , and _something_ is always Jemma Simmons. It’s not a hard protocol to follow.”

“Maybe for you,” Fitz mutters, scowling down at the table, and Daisy gives him another one of those smug, annoying looks that he hates.

“I believe in very few things, Leopold Fitz, and even fewer since the world ended. But,” she smiles at him then, “Jemma Simmons and Leopold Fitz are one of them. So don’t screw this up, okay?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he tells her firmly, and she doesn’t say anything, but her smile is still fixed firmly in place as she returns to her ration bar.

 

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.

 

“I'm leaving again,” Jemma informs him, hands wringing nervously. “Tomorrow. After breakfast.”

“So soon?” he manages around the lump in his throat. She looks exceptionally pretty today. Still dressed in the standard greys, but her hair is down, floating around her shoulders. He wonders whether it would get in the way of kissing. He _shouldn't_ wonder such things.

“Coulson says I’m gifted,” says Jemma, smiling, shoulders lifting in a shrug.

“He's right about that.”

Her smile blooms then, impossibly bright. “So you're okay with this? Me going out again so quickly?”

“No,” he admits, because the thought of her scars makes his fingers tremble, and the idea of her back out in the world is enough to make his hands shake. “But if you want this, I want it too, okay? You just—have to promise me you won't do _anything_ rash. And you’ll take it slow, you don't want to open up your stitches, and you've got to watch out for acid puddles, because Elena told me that there's been an—”

She's in his arms, suddenly, hugging him tight. He presses his nose into her hair, squeezes her shoulders tight, and tries not to let his functions melt down completely when she kisses him on the cheek.

“What—What was that for?” he asks, and she grins at him.

“No reason. You're just… a really, _really_ good person.”

She smiles at him, and he smiles right back, and he could do it now. It's quiet, and he can count every constellation of freckle on her face, and he could move his head just slightly and kiss her.

But he doesn't, and she pulls him down the hallway, oblivious to the tightness in his gut. _You are a coward, Leopold Fitz._

 

.

.

.

 

“Right,” he says, frowning at her pack. “You’ve got a suit repair kit? Medical supplies? Compass, map, navigational system? Extra rations, clean water—”

“I'm good, Fitz,” Jemma says with a little laugh, prying her hands away. “I swear. I'm ready for any and every event, and if I'm not, I give you permission to resurrect me just so you can continue the lecture.”

“Not funny,” mutters Fitz, but he's smiling. “Okay, so just, be safe, and come home, alright?”

“Alright,” she says, and there is suddenly something so soft in her eyes that it makes him take pause. “Is there,” she says carefully, “is there anything you want to say before I leave?”

“No,” he says reflexively, and she nods, sharp, eyes dropping.

“Okay. Good. Nice and simple, I like it.” She presses her fingers to his jaw for a split second. “Alright. I'll see you soon.”

“Okay,” he says, and she walks towards the door. _Coward_ , he reminds himself. But then he thinks of the way she'd been lying there, pale, and the way her lips felt on his cheek, and the way her smile could lighten up a post-apocalyptic day. Most importantly, he thinks that one day she might never come back, and that she’ll die never knowing that someone has loved her so fiercely, and—

“Wait,” he says, the words bursting desperately from his throat. Jemma turns, mouth parted in surprise. “I forgot something.”

She blinks at him. “What is it? Is it the torch? Because I already told you I have—”

“No! I forgot,” he manages, “to say that I love you.”

Her eyes widen. His heart stops, and for a moment, so does the world. But then Melinda May calls for her team to assemble, and Jemma is disappearing through the hatch, and Fitz can't keep his head screwed on straight.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, _I love you, and I couldn't care less if you love me back, but I need you to know, and I need you to understand_.

 

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The door to his bunk creaks open, and Fitz jerks his head up from his book. Jemma is standing there, looking lovely as always, hair curly from the helmet of her hazmat suit.

“Jemma!” says Fitz. “Why are you here?”

“Why am I here?,” she says, a little breathlessly, but she's smiling, and he thinks that smile might be what made him fall in love with her. Or maybe, falling in love with Jemma Simmons was just inevitable.

“Yeah. You're not due back for another three hours,” he reminds, and her eyes brighten.

“Oh, I know,” she says. “But I forgot something.” And she promptly drops her helmet, takes three steps forward, and presses her lips firmly to his.

Her fingers burn against his jaw, her hair is dangerously soft where it's tickling his neck, and Earth is still burning outside his window, but as Fitz has come to realise, his real world is her. Little else matters.

 

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.

.

 

_that's just my see through heart_  
_but just maybe you're my healing_  
_‘cause you have ways of seeing through_

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: i am am a firm believer in the headcanon that jemma and daisy have snogged at _least_ twice.


End file.
